another bouquet of flowers, tenderly offered. the sweet strum of your guitar lingers. i wonder how to protect my heart while still allowing it to bloom.
sometimes, i say, i’m overwhelmed by his affections. and yet here i am, pen in hand, writing poetry about our connection. i know it’s unfair, this tug of war, but our hearts tiptoe around what we both know: vulnerability is both a gift and a risk. and yet as time bends and distance fades, hope blossoms with every secret we share. you could write me a song — or we could write it together.
oh, the tapestry of daydreams we weave; painting our desires with strokes of anticipation. i stitch in a kiss. and you, a brush of fingertips. we might grow to love whatever unfurls. we might stop when it begins to unravel.
how do i end a poem about a story that’s still being written? i’m scared of the unknown, so i’ll leave you with this: even if we come undone in tears and shreds, i’ll still reread our chapter with a smile. that tug of war, we’ll both concede; we’ll find a way to stay at peace.
Constant Caprice 